


Don't Waste It

by joshie124



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapped Peter Parker, Kidnapped Tony Stark, Kidnapping, Torture, Waterboarding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2020-01-04 07:52:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18339350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joshie124/pseuds/joshie124
Summary: What if it wasn't Yinsen that Tony encounters in the caves, but Peter?Alternate universe in which Peter is a captured translator to Tony Stark during his time spent in captivity in Afghanistan.





	Don't Waste It

He woke up all at once, jerking back to consciousness and watching his breath fog in the air in front of him, body tense with anticipation. He felt like he was waiting for something, for something bad. Another stuttering breath, more fog in front of his face. He was laying down. He clenched his fist and blinked, trying to swallow. There was something in his throat. He tried to cough, but it remained. 

Putting a hand to his mouth, then his nose, he found a small tube taped there. He pulled at it. Memories began to flood back; the “fun-v,” the explosion, the bullets raining down around them, the missile…  _ his _ missile. As he pulled the tube from his nose, the feeling of it sliding out of his throat making him gag, he remembered the word printed on the side of that missile:  _ STARK.  _ Of course it was only fitting that his own weapons would be his death… but he wasn’t dead. Not yet, at least. He groaned, pulling the tube all the way out. There was a bright light to his right making his eyes hurt, stopping his pupils from adjusting to the darkness around him. The last of the tube came free, and he wiped the tape away from his face. 

To his left was a table, and on that table were a few things, but what caught his eye was the mug. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. He tested his hand, his fingers clenching, and found it difficult to make any fine motor movements. Taking the risk, he reached out.

The mug clattered to the floor and he heard the water spill out. Fuck.  _ Fuck. _ He coughed, hands shaking, turning away from that bright light beside him. As his eyes adjusted, he could see the room. More importantly, he could see a person, or the outline of a person. He blinked, and realized it was a boy, and the boy was staring at himself in a mirror as he brushed his teeth. He froze, watching the boy. 

He was young, scrawny, and clearly, he knew that Tony was awake as he glanced at him and back to himself every so often. Some corner of his mind wondered if this was his captor, but the thought dismissed itself. He was too young, too filthy. Maybe he was in the same boat as Tony... he needed to get up. He needed to figure out what was going on. He forced himself to roll over further, intending to use that momentum to help him stand, but he was held back by a tug at his chest, a dull, painful throb, and something on the table beside him slid as he moved. The boy looked at him in the mirror. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said. He had a slight accent, one Tony couldn’t place, and his voice was smooth. He seemed otherwise unconcerned with Tony. Tony, on the other hand, was  _ very  _ concerned with himself. He fell back onto his back, looking to his right, to discover the thing to which he was attached was a large car battery. His breath escaped him. It sat there, illuminated by the bright shop light which had blinded him earlier. No. It was impossible. He grasped at the black wire, one of two thick extensions of the battery, following that wire back to his own chest. He felt the bandages there, and felt something else, too, something hard and circular, and when he hit it with his palm it was as though he could feel it move deep inside him. The dirty white gauze ripped easily under Tony’s clawing hands. 

Piece by piece, it came away, and it wasn’t until it was all torn away from him that he truly realized that what he was seeing was real. Attached to him, or rather, implanted into him, there was a disk of metal in his chest. He panted, feeling the panic rise in him. This wasn’t happening. This  _ wasn’t  _ happening. A moment ago, he was in the fun-v, taking selfies and joking about hot soldiers. This was impossible. This… this was impossible… right?

 

***

 

It was late at night, or at least, Tony assumed it was. There were no windows, no light, no clocks. The boy sat in front of a small fire stirring some sort of brown mush in a pan. It looked like beans. Tony hoped it was beans. And he was  _ whistling _ . How was that for careless ambivalence? As he cooked, Tony continued to stare at the metal in his chest with a small mirror, the same one the boy had used to watch himself brush his teeth a few hours prior. They still hadn’t said anything to each other. 

The silence was unbearable, but Tony couldn’t even fathom where to begin. Where were they? What happened? What the  _ hell _ was in his chest? He settled on that final question as a starting point, but the only thing he could muster was an accusation. 

“What the hell did you do to me?” He asked, his voice raspy, quieter than he’d meant. 

“What did  _ I  _ do?” The boy said quietly, and laughed.  _ Laughed. _ Tony wanted to punch him in the teeth. “I didn’t do anything. Do I look like a doctor?” he said. 

His voice was smooth, gentle, but clearly there was a hint of something more there, a disdain toward Tony. Tony wondered if this was because he was likely the reason this boy was here. It would be a good reason to hate him. Lots of people hated him. He was used to this, though. He had no shortage of enemies. None who would go this far, surely, but he had enemies. “They removed all the shrapnel they could,” he continued as Tony continued to stare at his chest in the mirror, “But there’s a lot left, and it’s headed to your atrius septum.” Tony lowered the mirror. “Here, wanna see?” Tony looked over at him as he stood up, walking over to a table in the corner and picking up a small glass bottle. “There’s some here.” He shook the bottle and it jingled. “Take a look.” He tossed the bottle into Tony’s lap. Tony continued to stare at the boy, observing his face, the way he carried himself. He was cautious to an extent, but cocky, his jokes landing awkwardly on the weight of the situation.

Tony held the bottle up to his face, spinning it slightly, watching the little black pieces of shrapnel dance around the glass. They made light clinking noises as they moved, so small, but Tony knew too well what damage shrapnel could do. He’d designed several of his weapons to break apart like that, to do the most damage. 

“I’ve seen many wounds like that in my village,” the boy said. “We call them the “walking dead,” because it takes about a week for the barbs to reach the vital organs–”

“What is this?” Tony said, cutting him off. The kid paused, glanced at him, then his chest, then back to him. 

“That… is an electromagnet. Hooked up to a car battery. And it’s keeping the shrapnel from entering your heart.” He raised his eyebrows, returning to his cooking. “I guess they’ve had enough experience with these injuries to find a way to stop them from being fatal.”

Tony rolled his shoulders, considering this information. What did that mean? Was he still dying? Was he the  _ walking dead _ ? Who did this to him? Why try to kill him in the first place only to bring him back? He zipped up the sweatshirt over the magnet, trying to put it from his mind. Looking up, he saw a light, a red light, and behind the light was what was clearly a video camera. They were being filmed. The boy turned to see what he was staring at, and then smiled. 

“That’s right. Smile!” Tony was getting sick of his attitude, his jokes, his carefree mask. Before he could address this, though, the boy spoke again, cutting off his train of thought. “We met once, you know. At a technical conference in Bern.”

“I don’t remember,” Tony said honestly. The boy laughed. 

“Oh, you wouldn’t. I was there with my father, he brought me there for a business trip. He told me you were drunk. I didn’t know what that meant at the time, of course–”

“Where are we?” Tony asked, cutting the boy off once again. He glared at Tony, then back at the food, opening his mouth to answer, but he didn’t get the chance before there was a thud at the door and someone yelling something in a language Tony didn’t know. Suddenly, the boy’s entire demeanor changed. His face paled slightly, becoming nervous. He dropped the spoon he was cooking with and walked to Tony. 

“Stand up.  _ Stand up. _ ” Tony stood, startled into obedience by the sudden urgency and seriousness of his tone. The boy grabbed his arm. “Do as I do,” he said, enunciating every word. “Come on. Put your hands up.” The boy put his hands behind his head, and Tony mirrored him slowly, confused. What the hell was this? What had made this kid so nervous? What happened to that cocky attitude? The door opened in front of them. Three men walked in, one in front, two behind. The ones behind had guns.  _ His  _ guns.

“Those are my guns, how did they get my guns–?” He began to ask, but the boy cut him off. 

“ _ Shut up! _ Do as I do!” His voice was scared, his body tense. Tony thought he saw his hands shaking. Tony looked forward again. The man in front began walking toward them, raising his arms like a king. In one hand, he held a piece of paper. He spoke a language Tony didn’t know in a deep, booming voice, and at one point, Tony heard his name. At the end of his short speech, the man gestured to the boy beside Tony. 

“He says,  _ welcome Tony Stark, the most... famous mass-murderer in the history of America. _ ” So that was it, then– the boy was a translator? He seemed a bit young to be a terrorist for sure. Tony wondered how long he’d been there. 

The front man spoke again.

“He’s honored,” the boy translated, his voice quivering slightly. The man spoke again. “He wants you to build the missile–” the man interrupted him, speaking harshly, “Th-the Jericho missile that you demonstrated…” the boy corrected himself. The man stepped forward, and the boy flinched slightly, but he only held out the paper in his hand for the boy to take. He did so, unfolding it for him and Tony to see. As if to make his point excruciatingly clear, the paper had a picture of the Jericho on it. “This one.” There was a silence as Tony took in the situation. To him, the answer was clear.

“I refuse,” Tony said.

 

***

 

His head was being held underwater, and he was gasping for breath as he surfaced only to be held under again. He sputtered and fought against the people holding him, forcing him down. Water entered his lungs to be forced out moments later in his coughing, only to be forced back in again as he was put under. It was frigid, making him shiver and shudder and the men’s hands held him tight to the point he thought his arms might break. 

It was on the fifth dunking, or maybe the sixth, who knows, he’d lost count, that he thought he heard Pepper’s voice calling out to him, and he wondered if anyone was looking for him. He wondered if they’d find a corpse. He wondered if the shrapnel would kill him before he’d figure out how to free himself. He wondered if there was a way to stop that from happening…

They pulled him from the water again, someone yelling something about Jericho, always about Jericho. He regretted designing that stupid murder missile in the first place. Something rough was placed over his head, and he was pulled to his feet, barely able to stand on his own. His chest ached, the edges of the magnet jostled and irritated by the movement. 

They came to a halt, and the same voice as before said something a moment before the sack was pulled from Tony’s head. Sunlight blinding him, he blinked and tried to look around, to figure out where he was. His ears were ringing. He held the car battery in his arms. There were mountains around them, canopies covering stockades of weapons. Someone his his shoulder, and he stumbled forward. The boy was there, again, behind him. He looked nervous. Around them were men with guns. His guns. 

They walked down to the camp. Tony got a better look at the weapons then, and his heart sank. Stark. All of them Stark, all with his godforsaken name printed across them in white paint letters. He felt as though he’d signed his own death certificate. They stopped, and the man from before stood in front of them. He said a single word. 

“H-he… wants to know what you think.” Tony looked at the boy as he spoke. A bruise bloomed across his cheek, purple and yellow, and his eyes were red and tired. He didn’t look up as he spoke. 

“I think you have a lot of my weapons.” The boy translated this. The man spoke, now pacing around Tony and the boy, gesturing to him, to the weapons around them. After he was done, he looked at the boy. 

“He says, um, they have every… everything you need to build the Jericho missile. He wants you to make the list of, um, m-materials.” The man spoke again. “He says for you to start… working immediately, and, and when you’re done, he will... set you free.” The man held out his hand to Tony. There was only one way he was getting out of this, and he knew it. Tony shook his hand. 

“No, he won’t,” Tony said, mainly to himself, partially to the boy. 

“No, he won’t,” the boy confirmed quietly. The man smiled at them with pearly white teeth. Tony stared at him, disdain in his eyes.

 

***

 

“I’m sure they’re looking for you, Mr. Stark,” the boy said. They were back in their little room of the caves, that same small fire lighting up the sitting area. The food had long since been eaten, though it was certainly burned. The optimism was immediately turned around, though, as the boy continued. “But they’ll never find you in these mountains.” 

He knelt down next to Tony, but Tony continued to ignore him. 

“What you just saw… that is your legacy. Your life’s work. In the hands of those murderers… is that how you want to go out? Is- is this the last act of defiance of the great  _ Tony Stark? _ ” The boy’s voice was rising, cracking, and Tony was tired of it. He was tired of this attempt to raise his moral, to spark some kind of rebellious idea. What did the kid care anyway? They were both dead. 

“If I try to do anything they’re gonna kill me, and you _.  _ Either way, if they don’t I’ll be dead in a week.” The boy paused and stared at him.

“Well then. This is a very important week for you, isn’t it?” Tony said nothing. “Hm?” Still, he remained silent. The boy sighed, exasperated and exhausted and finished. He walked to his bed, and laid down. Tony glanced at him where he lay, a small outline of a person. Why did he care? What was Tony supposed to do about this? He’d already been the cause of so much death… but what the kid said had hit him. This was his legacy… wasn’t it? This death? Even if it wasn’t his intent to have these murderers have his weapons, the deed was done, wasn’t it? Perhaps not. 

He began sketching a plan for a miniature arc reactor that night, staying up until the lights in their room came back on, signaling sunrise. He worked as he listened to the boy breathing raspily, hardly moving. He convinced himself that he couldn’t get attached to this boy, to this place. He needed to get free. He needed a plan.

 

***

 

“This is gonna be my workstation, I want it well lit, I want welding gear, I don’t care if it’s acetylene or propane.” The boy was standing next to him, translating as quickly as he could to the man standing next to them both. “I’ll need a soldering station, we need helmets, we need goggles, I would like a smelting cup, and I need two sets of precision tools–”

“Slow  _ down!” _ The boy hissed at him, turning away again to talk to the men. 

The day was already well underway, men bringing in weapons and missiles and tools, machinery, everything Tony requested. He had a plan. Oh, yes, he had a plan. He didn’t know if it would work, but damn if he wasn’t going to try. Hours went by setting up gear, making sure everything was in place, accounted for. After a while, he and the boy were left alone in their workspace, Tony uncapping a missile in front of him while the boy watched with careful eyes. The men finished setting up, leaving them in peace to begin working. Tony wandered around the tables, taking in a moment of calm before his work began.

“How many languages do you speak?” Tony asked, and the boy seemed startled by the question. 

“Ah, a lot. But apparently not enough for this place.” Tony breathed a laugh as the cap to the missile came free. He placed it gently on the floor. “They speak Arabic, Urdu, Dari, Pashto, Mongolian, Farsi, Russian.” Tony removed the core of the missile, sliding it out with ease. 

“Who are these people?” He placed the core on the table. 

“They… are your loyal customers.” Tony stopped what he was doing and looked at the boy, who looked away for a moment before returning to Tony’s gaze. His eyes seemed honest, but dark. He looked down again. “They call themselves the  _ Ten Rings.” _ Tony huffed and went back to work on the missile. “You know, we might be more productive if you include me in the planning process,” he said, leaning down to Tony’s level where he was kneeling. Tony glanced at him. The bruise around his eye was healing to a dull yellow color. He looked like skin and bones in this light. Then again, he looked like skin and bones in most lighting.

“Yeah-huh,” Tony said, continuing to work. He slammed his fist down on the metal once, twice, before it broke free. Pulling another core from this missile, he fiddled with the insides before he pulled free a tiny metal casing. “Okay, we don’t need this,” he said, throwing the rest of the core behind him. The boy flinched as the metal hit the ground.

“What is that?” Jeez, this kid asked a lot of questions. It was getting harder and harder to ignore him. But then, he could be useful. And Tony needed an assistant if he was going to pull this off, anyway. He pulled apart the casing. In his forceps, he held a tiny sliver of metal. 

“That’s palladium. Point-one-five grams. We need at least one-point-six, so why don’t you go break down the other eleven?” The boy stared at the metal, then at Tony. With a look of resignation and intrigue, he retreated to the remaining missiles. 

 

***

 

A while later, they stood in front of a melted cup of palladium. 

The boy was the one who had to move it, of course; Tony had, at best, one hand if he was to hold the battery with the other. “Careful,” he said, hovering over the boy’s shoulder. “We’ve only got one shot at this.” He adjusted his grip on the battery, nervously shifting his feet.

“Relax. I have steady hands,” the boy said. He picked up the cup with the tongs and began walking it to the mold Tony had made. The boy smiled, but the joke didn’t hit Tony all that well. It was becoming harder and harder to exist with this kid in his space while simultaneously trying to ignore him, to pretend he wasn’t there. 

“What do I call you?” He asked, and the boy sighed without looking up from the pour. He said nothing for a while, focusing on the task at hand, or perhaps deciding if he wanted to tell Tony his name at all. Finally, he spoke.

“My name is Peter,” he said softly.

“Peter,” Tony repeated. “Nice to meet you.” Peter finished the pour and looked back at Tony with that same disdain in his eyes, mixed with intrigue.

“Nice to meet you, too,” he said, clearly aware of how long it had taken Tony to ask his name. Tony was finding it hard not to enjoy Peter’s company, especially since it had already been a week since his capture. He would much rather have someone to be annoyed with than to be alone. From the mold, Tony removed the circle of palladium, placing it into a casing he’d made from scrap metal. Peter watched him as he coiled wires, shaped metal, worked on something small, something delicate. 

 

***

 

In the end, when Tony was done, he was left with a glowing circle of light. It made the lights around them flicker. 

“Oh… That doesn’t look like a Jericho missile,” Peter said, leaning in to look at the new creation. 

“That’s because it’s a miniaturized arc reactor. I got a big one powering my factory at home. This’ll keep the shrapnel out of my heart.”

“Wh… what does it generate?” Peter asked. His voice was soft. 

“If my math is right, and it always is, three giga-joules per second.”

“That could run your heart for fifty lifetimes,” Peter said, looking away from the reactor at Tony. Tony couldn’t help but swim in his genius for a moment. Peter was in awe. To be fair, Tony was in awe as well, as he wasn’t 100% sure that this would work. But this wasn’t the end goal. Peter would be so much more impressed in just a moment.

“Yeah. Or, something big for fifteen minutes.” Tony led Peter over to the sketch table, bringing with him a stack of papers. On them was drawn multiple sketches for pieces of tech. “This is our ticket out of here,” he said. Peter, clearly trying to follow, was lost. 

“What is it?” 

“Flatten ‘em out and look,” Tony said, taking the liberty to do so himself. As the papers flattened, they revealed a single machine, a suit of metal and machinery and destructive power. Peter just stared in awe. After a moment, he cleared his throat, clearly attempting to hold back a smile.

“Impressive.”

  
  


***

  
  


Peter implanted the reactor into Tony’s chest that night. His hands were steady, as always, as he placed the casing, and then the reactor. He didn’t look away from his work once, and Tony stared at him as he worked, the focus showing on his face.

The reactor worked flawlessly, giving off a subtle blue glow. 

  
  


***

 

“Good roll, good roll,” Peter said, showing Tony where to move his pieces on the game board. He adjusted them so they lay straight. Tony watched him as he moved the pieces. It had been a month since his capture. Peter had grown on him.

“You still haven’t told me where you’re from,” Tony said. Not that he’d asked before. Peter looked up at him.

“I… I’m from a small town. Called Gulmira.” Peter paused and stared at his hands. “It’s actually quite nice.”

“You have a family?” Tony asked. Peter smiled softly and rubbed his hands together. He rolled his dice against the board.

“Hm. Yes. I suppose.” Tony poured himself some tea and raised his eyebrows. Peter hadn’t spoken much of himself at all in the time they’d been there so far. Of course, Peter knew a lot about Tony. Everyone in the world knew who Tony Stark was. Tony waited for him to go on after he’d put his pieces in the right places on the board. He remained quiet for a moment, but when he looked up and met Tony’s expectant gaze, he sighed and continued. “My mother and father were killed in the war when it came to us.” Tony blinked. Being in this place for so long, he’d forgotten there was a world outside the Ten Rings. He’d forgotten there was a war. “I’ve lived with my aunt and uncle since then.” Tony nodded.

“What’re they like?” Peter smiled. 

“Wonderful. The nicest people you would ever meet.” He paused, ringing his hands again. “And you, Mr. Stark?” 

Tony paused. He supposed, in some way, he considered Rhodey family. And Pepper. But did they think of him the same way? Probably not… “No,” he said, shaking his head. 

“No?” Peter sighed. “So you’re a man who has everything… and nothing.” It was a cruel thing to say, and Peter seemed to know it. Peter stared down at the game board, his eyes sad. Tony watched him and nodded, though he wasn’t sure if Peter saw it. They stared at the game, no longer wanting to play. 

“How long have you been here?” Tony asked after a long silence. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know. 

“Eight months, to my math,” Peter said. “That was before you got here. It’s nine now, I suppose. Not that you care.” Tony was taken aback. 

“Not that I  _ care?” _ Peter looked up at him, something dark in his eyes. This was how it had been the whole time– sometimes, the kid admired him, helped him, played games with him at night. Others, he hated him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“You…” Peter’s voice quieted, and he rubbed the heel of his palm into his eye. “You’ve ruined my life, you know.” Tony said nothing. “The bombs they used to destroy my home, they were yours. The soldiers carried your guns on both sides. Your bullets found their home in my family.”

“That– that’s not my fault. I only design the weapons, I don’t control who uses them…” Peter laughed, anger building in his eyes. 

“Do you know why I’m here? They needed a translator. They came to Gulmira in search of one, and my uncle knew many languages. He refused to help them. He was a good man,” Peter continued. Tony felt dread growing in his stomach. “They shot him for his disobedience, right between his eyes.” Peter smiled, but it wasn’t a true smile. It seemed out of place on his face. “And they took me instead.” Tony stared at him. Peter stared at his hands. “You are the reason I’m here. You are the reason they tortured me into obedience, took me from my home, buried me here in these caves.”

“I’m sorry,” Tony said, unsure of what else to say. He always assumed that Peter had been taken as a translator for general use, not specifically for him, not in preparation for his arrival. Guilt crept its way into his very being. He began to hate himself in all the ways Peter hated him. “Why are you helping me?” Peter scoffed.

“Well, to begin with, I’ll be killed if I don’t, and I  _ do  _ want to leave this place someday with my life. But, I’m not one for meaningless hatred. I believe you can change this world. You have so much power, but you put it in violence. And as much as I dislike you, I must admit, you are somewhat of a genius. I admire that.” Tony really didn’t know what to say now. Peter stared down at his hands. They sat in silence.

 

***

 

They worked for hours upon hours, days upon days. Peter and Tony talked more, about Peter’s home, his life, Tony’s life, their plans after they escaped. Tony admitted he didn’t want to build weapons anymore, not after what he’d seen. Peter smiled at that. 

 

***

 

It was late in the day when the men knocked at the door. Tony shut off his welder, looking over at Peter. They both stared at the door. It unlatched, and Tony and Peter both put their hands behind their heads. Peter’s face was filled with caution. Men with guns entered. Then, a new face. A bald man, surrounded by quite the entourage. Peter’s face paled, his eyes changing from caution to something more sinister, but there was fear as well. The man sauntered into the room.

He looked at Tony, and Tony looked back at him. After a silence, the man spoke. 

“Relax,” he said in plain English. Tony was somewhat surprised, but he didn’t let it show on his face. He wouldn’t give these murderers the satisfaction. He approached Tony, and Tony stood his ground even as the man put his fingers against the reactor in his chest. Peter watched the two of them with cold eyes. Tony wondered who this man was, if he was the one who took Peter from his home. If he was the one who shot Peter’s uncle. By the look Peter had in his eyes, Tony didn’t doubt it.

“The bow and arrow once was the pinnacle of weapons technology,” the bald man said. Tony had a feeling he was about to get a villain speech. The man removed his hand from Tony’s chest and walked toward the metal piece he and Peter had been working on before he came in. “It allowed the great Genghis Khan to rule from the Pacific to the Ukraine. An empire twice the size of Alexander the Great and four times the size of the Roman Empire.” He walked over to pick up the plans for the machine. Tony glanced at Peter, who met his gaze, holding up a hand to let Peter know it was okay; remain steady. “But today, whoever holds the latest Stark weapons rules these lands. And soon, it will be my turn.”

Then the man said something in yet another language Tony didn’t understand. 

 

“ _ What is going on here?” _ Raza said in Urdu. Peter shifted on his feet, looking at Tony yet knowing he couldn’t save him from Raza’s suspicion. 

“ _ Nothing. We’re working, _ ” Peter answered. Raza walked toward him. He shifted again, taking a half step back. Tony looked at Peter, concern flickering into his eyes. Peter’s hatred of Raza paled in comparison to his fear.

“ _ It’s been a long time. Where’s the weapon?” _

“ _ H-he’s working very hard. It’s very complex. _ ” Peter glanced at Tony again. Raza paused, then smiled slightly. 

“ _ Get him on his knees. _ ” 

“No–” Peter tried to protest, but rough hands grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing him down to the ground easily. A hand held his neck and head in place. He strained against them, scraping his feet against the ground, but he couldn’t move. His heart thudded in his chest. “ _No._ _We’re building Jericho. Please. Don’t.”_

“ _ Tell me what is going on.” _

_ “Nothing! Nothing is going on.”  _ Raza stood in front of the fire, picking something up with the tongs. As he turned around, he held a glowing hot coal. Peter’s breath picked up. The coal sizzled against the metal. 

“ _Open your mouth.”_ Raza ran his hand under Peter’s jaw, making him squirm. Peter could feel the color drain from his face. _No. No, no, no. Not this._ He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. The hands on his shoulders forced his head down against the bench in front of him. Peter fought back, jerking his neck, his shoulders. Fear clouded any semblance of reason. He couldn’t think.

“What? What does he want?” He heard Tony ask behind him, his voice panicked. 

“ _ Tell me. Now. _ ” He couldn’t. They were so close. They were so,  _ so  _ close. Peter couldn’t throw it away now, not while they had a chance. 

“ _ We’re building Jericho.”  _ He would hold his ground. For Tony. For freedom.

_ “Tell me.”  _ The coal came closer to his face. Peter could feel the heat radiating off of it, tickling his nose and cheeks. 

“ _ We’re building Jericho. _ ” He imagined the coal in his mouth, melting his flesh, his tongue, searing its way through his cheeks and teeth. He wondered if this was where he died. He jerked his head against the men holding him as the coal came closer and closer to his lips. He was held fast. 

“ _ TELL ME!”  _

“ _ We’re building Jericho! Please!” _

“What do you want, a delivery date? I can’t–” Every gun in the room turned on Tony Stark as soon as he stepped forward. Even Raza looked away from his task. The silence was heavy. Peter couldn’t take his eyes off of the coal, hovering so close to his face. “I need him.” Peter finally looked at Tony. “Good assistant.” There was a new silence that echoed through the room. Finally,  _ finally, _ Raza dropped the coal. It clinked against the bench. Peter’s shaking breath was the only thing in the room until Raza spoke. 

“You have until tomorrow to assemble my missile.” With that, he threw the tongs across the room and headed for the door. Peter’s head was released, but he didn’t dare move, his eyes fixed on the red coal. The men exited the room, slowly, until there were none left. Tony stood still too, unmoving, until he and Peter were left alone. 

Finally, he stepped forward, putting a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Are you okay?” Peter lifted his head, still kneeling on the ground. Tony knelt down in front of him. “Peter.” Peter shook his head. Tears threatened to fall from his eyes, and instead of letting them, he leaned forward, resting his head against Tony’s shoulder; nothing more. There was no hug, no words of encouragement, of comfort. Tony remained still, stoic. Peter tried to steady his breathing. “I’m sorry,” Tony said again. Peter breathed. 

 

***

 

Tony thudded the helmet down on the table where Peter was working connecting wires for the final product. Peter looked up at Tony, each of them holding a solemn look of determination. Peter nodded. 

Tony began preparing, wrapping his hands with tape to secure his knuckles, layering up his clothes to protect from the heat of the suit– gloves, boots, goggles, helmet. Peter helped him into a stiff leather jacket. Finally, the suit descended on Tony like an iron maiden, the glow from the arc reactor shining through the chestpiece. 

“Okay… can you move?” Peter asked. Tony tested his hands, clenching and unclenching his fists. The suit moved with him. Peter couldn’t help but smile. “Okay. Say it again.”

“Forty-one steps straight ahead. Then sixteen steps, that’s from the door. Fork right. Thirty-three steps, turn.”

“Good,” Peter muttered, tightening the bolts around Tony’s arms. A clang sounded behind them. Peter looked up. Someone was at the door. Voices were yelling something, but he didn’t understand the language. 

“Say something,” Tony urged. 

“I– they’re speaking Hungarian, I don’t–”

“Speak Hungarian!”

“I don’t know Hungarian!” 

“Say  _ something!  _ What do you know?” Peter wracked his brain. 

“Uh…” He shouted back at the men. Whatever he said, whether it was correct or not, clearly wasn’t satisfactory. They began to open the door. Peter shared a look with Tony moments before there was an explosion. At least their failsafe trap worked. Fear took over Peter’s eyes. 

“How’d that work?” Tony asked, unable to turn around and see. 

“Oh my god…” he muttered. “It, uh, it worked alright.”

“How’d I do?”

Peter swore in another language. “Let me finish this.”

“Initialize the power sequence,” Tony said, cutting his work short. A few loose bolts didn’t matter. They needed to move forward. Peter was beginning to panic, though. Tony couldn’t blame him. He was young. And he’d just blown up two people. “Peter,  _ now!”  _

“Tell me, tell me–” Peter said, turning to the computer. 

“Function 11.” Peter hit the key. “Tell me when you see a progress bar.” Peter was silent. “It should be up now–”

“Yes–”

“Talk to me Peter, come on.”

“I see it.”

“Press control, “i”,” 

“I…”

“I, enter.” 

“Okay, okay–”

“Come over here and button me up. Tighten the hex bolts.” Peter turned, his face pale with fear. Tony needed him to stay calm. This was their chance. 

“They’re coming,” Peter said, looking past Tony. “They’re coming–”

“Focus up. Come on.” Peter nodded. He finished tightening the bolts and turned to look at the screen. 

“Make sure the checkpoints are clear before you follow me out.” Peter didn’t answer. He stared at the computer. “Peter.” Peter looked back at him. 

“We need more time.” Tony stared at him. “I…”

“Don’t you dare.”

“I’m gonna go buy you some time.”

“Peter! Stick to the plan!  _ Peter!” _ He heard gunshots, a machine gun firing. Peter was gone. Tony’s stomach dropped. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He watched the screen, praying for the bar to move faster. Finally,  _ finally,  _ it finished. The lights in the workshop went out. 

 

***

 

He didn’t know how many of the Ten Rings’ men he’d taken out. A dozen, maybe more. It was so easy. Tony hated it. Their bones crunched under the weight of the suit, and it made his stomach churn. He finally came to the end of the caves, the entrance. Sunlight flooded in. 

Peter was there, laying on some of the supply crates, covered in blood. Tony’s heart dropped. 

“ _ Peter!” _

“Look out,” Peter called, his voice hoarse. A missile flew just right of Tony’s head, hitting the wall behind him. Raza stood before him. Tony felt the rage coursing through him. He loaded up one of his own missiles and fired without a second thought. The explosion rocked the cave, fire and debris raining down on Raza until he was buried. His focus came back to Peter. 

He made his way over, throwing a bag of rice out of his way to get to the kid. He was laying on his back, blood blooming out from his shoulder and stomach. His face was splattered with blood and dirt. Tony almost forgot how to speak. 

“Peter…” He started, then came back to himself. “Come on. We gotta move.” He reached out, grabbing on to Peter’s arm, but stopped as the kid cried out. 

“Stop! Stop,  _ stop _ …” Tony let go. Peter let his head fall back, his eyes shut tight in pain. He coughed, and blood leaked from his mouth. 

“We need to get out of here, Peter. We had a plan. You’re gonna go see your family.” 

“I don’t want to go, Stark, I want to live...”

“I know. This doesn’t end here.” Tony wouldn’t let this kid die, this innocent kid, who was only here because of him… he couldn’t. A slow peacefulness came across Peter. He knew what was coming.

“Don’t– don’t waste it. Don’t waste your life,” Peter muttered, his eyes beginning to close. Tony wanted to scream at him. 

“Don’t do that. This isn’t… this isn’t last words–”

“Please.” Tony stopped talking. “Don’t waste it.” Tony swallowed. Peter’s breathing was beginning to quicken, that familiar fear creeping into his eyes, always afraid, always cautious. 

“I won’t.” Peter’s eyes closed. He took a few more stuttering breaths before he fell silent, a calmness coming over his features– Tony had never seen him look so peaceful. 

He lit the place on fire. The people, the weapons– everything burned. The metal around him heated to near scalding temperatures, but Tony could hardly feel it. He felt numb. This was on him. This was all on  _ him.  _ When the last of the lives around him was destroyed, he took off, the blast repulsors launching him far away from that cave before all of his weapons set off, the explosion shaking the world. 

When he landed, he laid there, thinking about what he had done, what he had yet to do. The world needed him, needed him to change. Peter needed him to change. 

He didn’t cry. He stood, and walked.


End file.
